The Devil's Due
by midnighrunner
Summary: "Are you with us, or against us?"
1. Chapter 1

A/n's: Well, here it is. A long last. I…I don't even know what to say. I've gone around and around and back again about this thing and, well…not to repeat myself, but, here it is. I'm about a 1000% more anxious about this than I was about _Devil's Left_ and I think that's mostly because I don't want to let anyone down. If I have, I apologize, but at the end of the day – I'm only human, and it's just a story.

As always, a couple of quick shout-outs: Sad little tiger, you've quickly become, like, my new best friend. You've made these past weeks so much easier to bear; thank you for your jokes and your time and your patience. And, of course, Beta. You've been there from the beginning, dealing with my childish meebling like a trooper, and yet, even knowing what you were getting into, happily signed on to see the sequel through.

Warnings: Sexual references. (OMG, no swearing!)

Disclaimers: The usual applies. Do not own, no profit made, please don't sue, etc. etc.

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><p><strong>The Devil's Due<strong>

"'…_The woman said to the serpent, 'but God did say, you must not eat fruit from the tree that is in the middle of the garden...or you will die.'_

'_You will not surely die,' the serpent said to the woman. 'For God knows that when you eat of it your eyes will be opened and you will be like God, knowing good and evil.'"_

_-_Obsessmuch, _Eden_

Chapter One

The High Priestess

"_The High Priestess is the card of knowledge, instinctual, supernatural, secret knowledge. She holds scrolls of arcane knowledge that she might, or might not, reveal to you. 'I've a new idea,' say you, but what to do with that idea? This is the job of the High Priestess, to offer secret knowledge, insider knowledge, like the moon on a dark night, so that you can find your path."_

_-Thirteen, Aeclectic Tarot_

_She was sad._

_Even if Mr. Bill hadn't said so, Sarah would have known. She knew these things._

_She knew what it meant to be sad._

_Sometimes, when it was dark and quiet and nobody was around…she was still sad. Sometimes, even though they'd been gone a long time and even though she was big girl enough to know it wouldn't bring them back, she still cried for Momma and Daddy._

_And she'd bet her loose front tooth that the sad lady did too because she'd lost her Daddy - just like her; and that's what you did when you lost your Mommies and Daddies. _

_You were sad._

_For a long time._

_"The Two Little Orphans." _

_That's what the lady called the two of them when Sarah told her about Momma and Daddy. That's what she'd called them while she laughed and pretended not to cry._

"_The Two Little Orphans." _

_That's what everyone else called the two of them when they sat together at dinner, when they read together at night, when Sarah would have nightmares and crawled into bed with her._

"_The Two Little Orphans." _

_That's what they called themselves when they crossed their pinkies and promised to be friends forever._

_Nothing would ever come between them-_

-a crash, muffled by the floorboards, but still loud enough to startle, had Sarah jerking awake. Heart pounding, she stared, wide-eyed and

sightless into the heavy dark.

From below a voice floated up through the thin and aged wood. "Sssh! Be careful. Sarah's sleeping upstairs, you'll wake her!"

_Too late._

"Sorry," came the soft, sheepish, reply, followed quickly by the scraping sound of whatever had been knocked over being righted once more.

While somebody laughed, and somebody called the knocker-over a name, Sarah pulled at her blanket, dragging it with her as she slipped from the bed and crept – quiet as a mouse – across the floor and out into the hall. At the top of the stairs, just beyond where the glow of the lanterns could reach, she hid, curling up with her blanket to listen.

They never let her stay for the meetings. Christy and Mr. Bill always sent her to bed…but she snuck out as often as she could to listen anyway.

"How's she doing?"

That'd be Claire Redfield, Sarah was certain. Claire was always asking that.

_Getting there_, she mouthed in time with Mr. Bill's response. As if she would ever be okay with it. As if she would ever understand why.

_Why would she leave us? Why would she leave me? She promised! We pinky-swore!_

Biting her lip, Sarah rubbed at the offending digit beneath the blanket as it tingled uncomfortably at the very thought; as if it too knew that the promise it had helped make had been broken.

While she chased her thoughts, the talk downstairs turned from her to "The Plans."

"New York," Jill Valentine was saying, smooth and even in time to gentle, crinkling noise.

Sarah imagined her smoothing out one of the old maps, frayed and torn, a pale finger tapping the city in question.

"He was re-establishing his command there. He wouldn't have gone anywhere else."

"That's a lot of ground to cover." Deep, authoritative….That was Leon Kennedy. Leon and his friend Barry Burton and their group of people had already been here - in this small, cold place - when they had passed overhead on their way to meet up with the rest of the Arcadia survivors. The plan had always been to regroup in Russia – the cold, Alice said, was bad for zombies – but finding them, Leon and the others, and that they were willing to share…that was lucky. (Luck we deserve, Mr. Bill had said, after everything...) "How do you propose we get there?"

"The jets?" Luther replied.

Luther West. Sarah liked him. Maybe more than anyone anymore. He was nice. He made her laugh.

And he never asked her how she was doing.

"Even if we had enough fuel to get there, they'd see us coming long before we ever got close."

Jill again. Sarah didn't know what to think about her. She tried to be friendly, tried to be nice, but her eyes…they were far away. Cold.

Scary.

They said she'd seen things, done things, that had changed her. Made her different.

_Like her. She changed after him. He made her different._

But they told her different wasn't bad. Jill _wasn't _bad for being different….so why _was_ she?

Shifting, Sarah tucked her chilled nose under the edge of the blanket, curling her toes into the cotton as she rubbed at her pinky again and listened on.

~.~

Albert Wesker was not, by nature, the celebratory type. Neither was he the type to take stock in plebeian traditions.

However….

This time, this moment….

He dug through the bottom most drawer in his desk, seeking the box of cigars – battered, forgotten, one corner slightly crushed – that he had found and dismissed upon his…_borrowing_…of New York living quarters a year prior.

Wrenching it free from underneath a stack of files, he nudged the drawer shut with his knee and squared the old red and brown box in front of him, popping the lid with a flick of long fingers. The cutter winked up at him, blades catching the low light and playing it back, and the scent - smoky tobacco leaves, aged rolling paper – had his nostrils flaring.

He could appreciate, at least, as he plucked one free and brought it to his nose, that the desk's previous owner had squirreled away the finest; and, admittedly, the knowledge that it could have been the very last box of Cubans on the planet only added to the pleasure.

Snipping the end of the cigar neatly, he pushed the others aside for the plastic lighter – _a study in contrasts, expensive cigars, cheap lighter_ – and leaned back as his thumb stroked over the wheel, cigar tucked into the corner of his mouth.

The lighter hissed, sparked…and eventually spat a sliver of flame that he cupped around the end of the cigar, leaning back in his chair as it caught and smoke began to curl lazily around him.

_To the future_, he mused on the inhale.

_To us_, he promised on the exhale, smoke rings drifting from between his lips; neat little "o's" that expanded as they traveled across the room, dispersing into nothing more than hazy wisps of fragrance by the time they reached the bed...and the woman dozing in it.

He tapped the lighter against the arm of his chair, turning it slowly between his fingers as he silently smoked, puffing like the mythical dragon she'd once laughingly compared him to. His eyes played over her, retracing the limbs cast askew, the arch of the body pale and bare in the tangle of sheets, the sweeping fan of hair that was like a dark and gleaming crescent across his pillow.

His Diana of the Hunt...

She shifted sleepily, nose twitching - the unusual scent stealing into her dreams, no doubt - and with a soft, murmured sound, a hand slid across the mattress, seeking….

He didn't move. Didn't make a sound. But he felt it; a tell-tale heat, rising in his veins.

..._My Eve._

The questing hand clenched, tightened...and then relaxed as her eyes - jade and bronze - blinked open. For a moment, a shuddered heartbeat, she stared at nothing, gaze distant and uncertain, then, dark and heavy-lidded, those eyes found him; locked with his own - scarlet and gold.

_What color,_ he wondered, mind turning curiously at the possibilities, _will our progeny wear?_

Her mouth curved, her lips a sharp little bow, and the hand lifted to him.

"Come to bed," she murmured, sheets rustling as she shifted. Reached for him.

Beckoned.

_Come hither, Adam._

His mouth mirrored the movement of hers, pulling upward around the cigar as he dragged at it, pulling another lungful – one last – of the heady smoke before stubbing it out.

Before he went to her, and she opened her arms to him - warm and welcoming, eager and strong.

Before he whispered her name at the pulse in her throat, and before she pulled at his clothes; her hands as desperate, as possessive, as the ones he ran over her.

Before they tangled together, entwining…like a pair of serpents in the shadow of Eden.

~.~

So they had been called, so they arrived. Alone or in groups, Umbrella's directors – they who survived – shimmered into existence around the great table.

From his place, Sergei Vladimir watched them appear. Watched how their slick, impassive faces slowly creased and frowned; how their eyes darted down the table's length to the chair at the end.

The one that sat, most conspicuously, empty.

He waited as their silent confusion broke into a soft buzzing, into whispers that hissed quickly, sharply, back and forth amongst them.

_Where was he? (Busy with his whore no doubt!) Why had they been called? (Because it amused him to see how fast, how high, they would jump!) How dare he? (They were the best, the brightest – they could not be treated this way!)_

Unable, unwilling, to contain it, his head fell back suddenly, barking with laughter; a baying hound hidden in their midst by a three piece suit.

"Say it loud, comrades," he told them as they stared, untenting his fingers to hold out his hands, palms up. "Do not fear. Tonight, we speak freely. Our malevolent Highness will not being joining us."

"Oh?" Across the table the slim, perfectly arched brow of Umbrella Romelifted. "And how can you say for certain?"

_Excella Gionne: young, beautiful...vicious._

Sergei could see the hunger in her eyes as easily now as he had when she'd first taken her chair, slipping smug and easy, into the place of the prior director - whose tragic infection they'd never quite been able to explain.

_She will be easy._

He smiled, cool and confident and amused. "Because he didn't call this meeting - I did."

More whispering. Quick glances shared around the table, and, to his right, Paris' Saunders leaning away, shifting delicately.

_Coward._

It pained him, almost physically, to share an opinion with the Chairman.

"By what right does Director Moscow call upon us without the approval of our Chairman?" asked small, bespectacled Samuel Barns of South Africa, sitting stiff and straight in his chair.

_Unfailing loyal, despite everything. Of course. _

As expected, Barns would be hard won. But...if he could be swayed...the others would

fall into place like so many dominoes.

"Tell me, Mr. Barns, why should I - _we_ - seek the approval of one as unworthy as he?"

Barns' head snapped back, color blooming in his face. "You _dare-_"

"Of course," Sergei interrupted, unmoved by the other man's indignation. "As should you. What has he done for us, this chairman?" He looked around the table, one face, one pair of eyes, at a time. "Even if we could forgive his tempers, his shameful waste of company resources, and the unholy hungers that make him no better than the very creatures we seek to destroy, we are still left to address the fact that even now, six long years after the fall of Raccoon we have made no progress on the cure. We are still trapped. We are still dying. And why? Because he has failed us. Time and time again."

"And you," spoke up Kenneth Maul, Director New York, for the first time. He was still pale, still twitchy - a muscle ticking oddly just beside his left eye - but had somehow found the nerve to speak.

Sergei took it as a good sign. A step in the right direction.

"You believe you can do better?"

"Yes." He saw no reason to beat around the bush. "I know what needs to be done and how to see it so. Stand with me, comrades. Free yourselves - free Umbrella - and we will finally take back what is ours."

Barns' stared, wild-eyed, but silent. Maul looked down at his hands, apparently absorbed in the way they twitched uncertainly. Gionne tipped her head, eyes dark and hungry.

It was, in the end, she that broke the silence.

"I call for a Vote of No Confidence in Chairman Albert Wesker."


	2. Chapter 2

A/n's: Chapter Two, woo! I like this one, I really do. I hope you do too! Thanks to sad little tiger who beta'd this chapter for me so I could post it sooner. You are amazing, Twin. I mean it! Don't ever change. :)

Warnings: Sex. Sexy-sex. Naked sexy, fetish sex. And then - just for a change of pace - MOAR sex.

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><p><span>Chapter Two<span>

The Star

"_With Aquarias as its ruling sign, The Star is a card that looks to the future. A soft card, it is one that everyone loves. It tells you, when the way is dark, to look to the heavens for guidance, or, more appropriately, to the spark of divinity that lies within yourself that you could not see or acknowledge before, and whenever all hope seems lost, it will reappear to prove that you have really lost nothing, except perhaps your sight of the path to enlightenment. That said, however, there is a trick to this card. Whatever hope, healing, or future it offers; you must remember that it might not be immediate. Its vision is for tomorrow, not today. The star only reveals the future; it never shows the final solution to any problem. Now that you have been inspired, you still have much to do in order to bring your vision into manifestation. It is up to you to find the way."_

_-Thirteen, Aeclectic Tarot_

_-Ata-Tarot_

He could smell it – that part of himself buried inside her – on her, in her, pumping his virus through her veins as she writhed beneath him, arching like a bow in his arms; and it was…_thrilling._

Her limbs, so smooth and cool against his heat, wrapped around him, holding as hard, as tight, as he as his mouth tore over her, tasting; desperate to know the favor of them as they ran together.

Him and her. Tangled. Entwined.

She laughed in his ear, wanton and wild, whispering and murmuring.

_Harder. Faster._

_More._

_Please._

The scent of blood hit the air – coppery and strange – mixing with the musk of sex as her nails bit, digging crescent-moons in his shoulder, and his teeth closed on the little hollow in her throat, that curve where her pulse - her scent - was strong.

She laughed again, his name buried in the sound, and her head fell back, hair spilling into a dark halo.

_Temptation._

He buried his hands in it, wrapping the silk of it in his fists, and pulled, forcing her back, taking, even as she opened to offer more. Even as she encouraged him, a leg snaking around his hip, pulling him harder – deeper.

His mouth played over her skin, smudging ruby kisses along the delicate chords of her neck, shadowing her jaw in red, tattooing her mouth with the taste of herself. Of him.

_Us._

Her teeth grazed, nipping, nibbling – biting until he was flowing too, spilling into her.

_Inseparable._

They rolled, twisting together, and then she was arching over him, rocking and grinding on him, with him. Her hair swept across her face, crimson mouth peeking through the strands, white teeth pulling at her lip, parting on a manic peal of laughter. Her eyes, dark and dilated, glinted down at him, eyebrows lifting in challenge.

_Take me._

And he reached for her, pulling her back, wanting that too.

Her fight. Her madness. Her passion.

All of it.

Always.

~.~

They were alone now; just the pair of them.

The rest of the board had placed their votes; played the lottery, cast their stones.

The black spot fell to Kenneth.

"Is this…really necessary?"

"Sacrifices must always be made," Vladmir replied, folding his hands, watching – always watching – from across the table, pale eyes as unwavering as they were unreadable. "That is the way of business, my friend."

_Friend._

Just a word, but it lodged in Kenneth throat. Thorn-like, it dug at him, threatening to choke him, threatening to slit him open.

He could almost taste the blood. Just there, at the back of his mouth.

"But with more time-"

"When I was a boy, my father taught me to fight." Vladmir cut across smoothly, without as much as a blink. "He said to me, 'To best a bigger man, you smash his face in with a brick before he even knows he is in a fight.'" He smiled then. That slow leer - all teeth. "This – this is what is on our side. Surprise. Not time."

His stomach curled and he almost gagged, but turned it into a cough instead; a measured clearing of the throat.

He wondered his palm didn't come away red.

"You spoke of waste, of the Chairman's cruelties – is this your response, more Umbrella deaths?"

A twitch. The slightest narrowing of those ice-grey eyes. "Their lives are not taken maliciously. Or without regret. But in truth, it's almost a fairer end, is it not? Quick." He snapped his fingers, Kenneth's hands jerked. "Painless. Better, one would think, than what he might offer _them_."

"If there were another way…?"

"We would take it, of course."

He exhaled; skin prickling at the phantom brush of fingers. The Many, painting him in their blood. "If I refuse?"

"The Board has spoken. Umbrella no longer lives for Albert Wesker. The company's will be done – with, or without you."

Of course.

"Any more questions, Director Maul?"

The fingers squeezed, closing on his throat. "No."

"Good." Vladmir nodded, the overhead lights reflecting sharply in his silver hair. "0700, Director. We will be watching."

~.~

In the aftermath, he continued to hold her, pleased by her trembling – by the weakness of it, the power in her surrender.

_Her trust._

His fingertips, his lips, played over her, each in turn, slow and thorough, logging the feeling away. Memorizing it, how she shivered for him.

Because of him.

A smile danced around her mouth, lazy and amused; he shifted to taste it, and found himself in a smear of red along the curve of her lips.

It was dangerous. Foolhardy, at the very least, what they had done. He could admit that…even as he rejoiced in it. Even as he bathed in it, as her blood still dried on his skin.

But truthfully – what did it matter now? The change was coming, whether or not he was ready for it. Whether or not she wanted it.

His mouth glided, silk, down the slope one breast, counting ribs (7 true, 3 false, 2 floating) as his lips dragged by. Her fingers curled in his hair – he didn't protest, taking pleasure in the feel of her nails on his scalp – and his tongue traced the little scar, just there, small and curving. (_Childhood accident_, she had told him. _When fishing trips go bad._)

Did she know, he wondered as he paused, circling her navel, teeth grazing. He could smell it there, feel it. Did she?

He looked up, gold and red finding the green and bronze. Her smile had slipped away, stolen (his to keep), but her eyes were clear.

Bemused and watching. Waiting.

_No. Not yet._

He still had time. There would be questions that would need answers. Precautions to put in place. She would be…_uncertain_, he was sure.

He would need to prepare her.

Eventually.

Soon.

But for now…he grinned up at her, a shark's smile, and sank his teeth into her hip.

Her cry of pain was drowned by the sound of her laughter.

~.~

We'd painted a picture on the sheets, he and I.

A blurry watercolor of sex and blood…or maybe a finger-painting – I could see mine after all, just there, palm splayed wide on the headboard (wanton) and there, a fist wound tight in the fabric (desperate).

Once upon a time, that might have worried me – shamed me even – the way he demanded and I gave, the way I needed and he provided; but now…now I only felt the heat, that wave of satisfaction, that echoed the memories, still vivid, replaying in my head and the taste of him (still raw) that lingered on my tongue. On my lips.

If I scraped my teeth over them, it came back just as fresh - the bitter spice of him. A reminder. A second bite of the forbidden fruit.

_Scrape-scrape_.

Back and forth as he dressed and I watched, fascinated by the quick, easy, movements of his gloveless fingers as he zipped and buttoned, cinched and tied.

"You should join me later," he said suddenly, without looking up from the desk drawer he was searching through. (_Looking for his sunglasses_?) "In the lab."

The languid, catlike contentment dipped – but didn't fade – at the flicker of curiosity.

I was welcome enough in the labs, Dr. Brooks and I rubbed along in a friendly sort of way, but I wasn't of any real use to any of the techs.

"Any particular reason?" I asked as I turned, stretching across the mattress to pull open the little drawer in the nightstand.

A heartbeat passed, broken only the soft rattling of objects as he moved them hastily. "Yes."

Smirking, I turned back, sunglasses outstretched, dangling from between my forefinger and thumb by an earpiece. (_Looking for these?)_ "Care to share it with me?"

He looked up, raised eyebrows dropping quickly as his gaze landed on the dark eyewear. "Not as of yet."

The sunglasses twirled, propellering as I rolled the earpiece between my fingers. "With an invitation like that, how can a girl resist?"

The drawer slammed and he crossed to the edge of the bed, looming over me as I lay back, deftly plucking his glasses free and bringing them to his face, pushing them into place. (_You're welcome._)

"Lab 102," he instructed, already turning away, headed for the door.

My eyes closed (_scrape-scrape_), pondering a nap, wondering if it'd help me feel my legs again.

"When you shower," his voice floated back to me, I opened one eye, found his back filling the doorway. "Don't use the soap. Leave it - as it is."

I smiled.

(_Scrape-scrape._)

~.~

Before the end, Kenneth Maul had been an assistant. A glorified gopher. Fetching dry-cleaning, taking calls, pushing paperwork…it was hard to believe there had ever been world so mundane. A world where his biggest concern was remembering to put three sugars, only one creamer, in the coffee and to make sure the dinner jackets got extra starch.

Harder still to imagine how he'd gone from that…to _this_.

To sneaking, to lying, to conspiring with the Board as if they were all senators of old, preparing to slay the modern day Caesar…

…To signing the death warrants of hundreds of people.

Difficult. Improbable. But not impossible.

The memories were there, haunting him. Chasing him as he disconnected and slipped from the conference room.

Images of pain and death, infection and blood that all added up to one thing - survival.

He'd outlasted. Outlived everyone who had come before him, everyone above him, and it had been _chance_ – not _ambition_ – that had led him here. To the fancy office, to the special title….

To murder.

He wanted to tell them – the sleepy-eyed soldiers he passed in the hall on his way to the elevator, the researcher who looked up from her notes with a smile when she joined him in the car two floors later – that _this_ was not what he wanted. He wanted to explain to them, make them see, that this…this was not who, _not what_, he was. That this end, the means of it, were not up to him.

That every time someone called him, "Director," he would look over his shoulder, seeking the others. The ones Before.

But his tongue wouldn't move; his lips wouldn't form the words, andthey passed him by, unaware, and unwarned, and he was left alone.

Alone again with the pictures in his head, with Sergei Vladmir's words ringing in his ears.

_The Board has spoken._

_The company will be done._

~.~

Her hair was still wet when she joined him in the lab, the shoulders of her shirt freckled where it had dripped. Heavy with damp, it brushed against Wesker's ear, curled to the skin of his neck (wove them together), as she leaned over him and peered down through the microscope's eyepiece. As he'd wished (he'd hoped) she'd forgone the soap and his scent – the smell of his blood, his sex – clung to her, to the slick strands of hair, to the smooth, pale skin.

On any other occasion, he might have stayed with her, after their fevered, violent joining, and waited to bath with her, enjoying the feel their bodies, wet and warm as they moved together in the small space, but this time…he'd needed to prepare. To study, and firm up the few conclusions he'd already come to.

To ready himself for her response.

Her complacency, or lack of it, would not change the result – it was too late for that – but, as before, with that first, uncertain night after the Arcadia, he found he wanted it. Her willingness.

He wanted her to choose him – _them_.

Their future.

"What am I looking at?" she asked, fingers playing casually over the focus knobs, belying the way her pulse quickened when he turned his head and his nose brushed her jaw.

They ran together, the scents of him and her, blurred the edges that separated them – reminded him of the piece of them both that grew in her. "A blood sample."

He pushed at the fall of hair separating his mouth from her skin, listening to the strong pump of her heart, to the in-and-out rush of her lungs, as he tasted – gently, curiously. Eyes closed, he imagined the tiny cells – like those on the slide, T-shaped, and distinctive – swimming in her veins.

His virus. A present to her, for him, from it – the busy little blastocyst. By now it would have implanted, would be multiplying, replicating, growing, and changing….

She shivered, just the once, before he felt the muscles of her jaw moving in reply. Slowly. Mindful of his gently working mouth. "What's wrong with it?"

Teeth nipped. (A reprimand.)

"Nothing."

It was shedding virus into her blood, their offspring, perfecting her womb for itself…and gifting him an equal.

He had long considered the possibility of trying to repeat the successes of Project Alice and himself (varied as they were) with her, but always, in the end, he had refrained. Resisted.

Two out of billions - the odds were…_unimpressive_, and he had been neither ready, nor willing, to risk it.

To tempt the possibility of…_losing_…her.

But now…now their tiny progeny - unexpected, (impossible) - had gone and made the choice for him.

"It is not _wrong_ – merely changed." He continued, pulling back, seeking his mark – the crescent shadow his teeth had branded into the flesh of her throat. Nestled beneath her ear, above her pulse, it was red against the paleness of her skin…but already smoother, lighter, than it should have been.

Had she noticed?

Accelerated healing was one of the universal mutations, shared by both himself and the runaway Project….

His thumb curved over the wound, circled the beat of her pulse. "Changed." Wesker repeated. "For the better."


	3. Chapter 3

A/n's: Thanks again to slt (TWIN) for her unbelievably generous help with not only the betaing, but for putting up with my general whining and moaning and meebling. It was especially bad this chapter, I know. Thank you for putting up with me and still consenting to talk to me after. XD

Warnings: Minor swearing, minor gore, death.

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><p><span>Chapter three<span>

Three of Swords

"_The symbolism of the Three of Swords is scant, but powerful, and it's almost universal in its portrayal. Three swords pierce a heart. Against a background of a storm, it bleeds. Thus this card depicts, rather unambiguously, the ability of logic and power to harm the physical body and the emotions of a person. There is rejection, sadness, loneliness, heartbreak, betrayal, separation and grief; and it's no wonder why this card is so dreaded. But, as awful as it may sound, there is an up side to this card. Pain is often necessary in life – without it there would be no challenge, no point. Pain motivates us, drives us to surmount obstacles and to return our lives to the way they were before."_

_-Thirteen, Aeclectic Tarot_

_-Ata-Tarot_

He was actually a little surprised by how easy it was. A few taps, a few clicks, and data was flying away, scattering to the distant corners of the globe.

Copy, send, delete.

He sat in the moonish glow of the monitor (so cool and comforting), turning in the chair, watching his shadowy silhouette dance across the walls, keeping him company as he worked. As he waited.

Lather, rinse, repeat.

The Red Knight hovered by his side, a red blur moving in and out of his sight as he spun. There one minute – gone the next. Real…and not.

It spoke to him, murmuring and imploring, and shifted to follow him, sneakered feet not quite touching the floor.

Almost like it cared.

He was relieved to remember that it – at least - wouldn't be able to bleed.

~.~

_My blood. _

He didn't have to say it; I could wiggle that last piece into place myself.

_Swimming with T._

I was infected. The Zombie virus had at last come for me.

~.~

Wesker knew the exact moment she put it together. The very instant the grand design bloomed before her.

The truth. Her fate. Their destiny.

Her heart skipped, then pounded – hard and fierce – as her lungs expanded on a rushing breath. She tensed, muscles bunching beneath his touch, against him.

When she jerked, sudden and awkward – flight – so did he, his chair tipping and crashing to the floor, wheels whirling uselessly through the air. They slammed as one into an exam table – fight – and coiled like serpents, twisting around one another. Equipment flew through the air, the abrasive squeal of metal offset by the gentle tinkling of breaking glass.

He bent her over the table, pinned her shoulders flat with an arm across her breasts and brought them face to face. Their noses brushed, breath mingling as his hips slid between her thighs and one of her knees pressed into his ribs, the tread of one boot biting into the back of his calf. Her chest heaved beneath him; her eyes - wide and wild – staring up from the other side of his dark lenses.

"Mine." She panted, whispered, her breath warm against his mouth. "It's mine. I'm infected."

It wasn't a question, but he responded regardless, his lips brushing hers. "Yes." An affirmation.

~.~

A promise?

He was hot and heavy, his weight, the nearness, comforting…and terrifying. The taste of him flitted across my tongue with his reply.

_Yes._

I swallowed (bitter spice) and took a breath (cologne and leather). "How?"

~.~

Her heart slowed and her breathing settled, body softening under him as the tension melted away and she shifted delicately.

Molding…accommodating. Welcoming.

He watched her lashes flutter, eyes closing, shuttering her away,…then opening again. Meeting him, connecting.

Accepting. Ready.

_Trust._

Uncertain and careful , but there. As ever.

He moved, lifting away (freeing her) so he could slide his hands down, push at the fabric of her shirt, find the pale, warm flesh of her stomach. The muscles ticked beneath his fingers, skin pebbling in the coolness of the lab.

_How_, she had asked, and he held her hips, thumbs circling - soothing…encouraging as he answered.

"The child."

~.~

"Chairman."

They both turned, his head snapping over, hers lifting off the table, to stare at the sudden interloper – the unbidden third wheel.

The Red Knight looked between them, undisturbed by the weight of their gazes, unembarrassed by the intimate tangle of their bodies, and acknowledged her with a polite bob of its head before addressing him once more, "Chairman, I have urgent news regarding Director Maul."

"Can it wait?" He snapped, the heavy exhale flaring his nostrils.

She was shifting, moving beneath his hands (unwinding), sitting up and brushing by him as she slipped from the table and found her feet (unbound).

"No, Chairman." The A.I. shook its head, almost sadly. "I would not have disturbed you were it not necessary."

He reached for her – she touched him, gentle and quick. A hand, there and gone, on his arm. "It's okay." She told him. "I've got…things to do. We can talk later."

He frowned, mouth thinning.

He didn't want it left this way – unfinished, unsettled between them. He didn't want her leaving before he knew….

But her lips were quirking – a promise – and she was already walking away; glass crunching beneath her boots, a set of forcipes rattling loudly across the floor as she pushed them aside on her way to the door. The door that breezed shut behind her with a hiss of finality.

Done. For now.

He turned on the computer with a snarl. "What _is _it?"

~.~

I washed my face. Once, twice, a third time - willing myself to be refreshed, calmed, by the cool and clean water.

_Infected._

The drain gurgled, bubbling, as I wrenched the knob and turned the water off. My reflection dripped, pale and uncertain, watching me with worried eyes as I groped for a towel. Patted dry.

_I'm infected._

The woman in the mirror looked away, eyes cast down. Staring at her navel as I did the same.

I took a step back (she followed) and we both pushed at our shirts, a pair of shaking hands stroking over smooth, unblemished skin.

_I'm pregnant. I'm infected and I'm pregnant…infected because I'm pregnant. Pregnant with an infected…what? _

What would it be? What could it be? This thing inside me.

What would it do to me? What would become of me…pregnant and infected?

I looked up again, met the gaze in the glass.

Terrified.

_Stop! _

I shoved at my clothes, pushing them hastily back into place.

_Just…stop_.

I tore my eyes from the mirror, refused to look, as I swiped at my face again and tossed the towel aside.

_So what if he's – what he is. I…_my chest tightened, my stomach twisted, the words felt – painfully so – but never spoken._…And he's never – __**wouldn't**__..._

My fingers fumbled over the wall, clicked the switch. Darkness filled the room.

Comforting.

All I needed were some candles.

~.~

The A.I. had gone, flown away, like the canary in the coal mine, to sing to someone who would listen.

He should have shut it down, kept it from sounding the alarm, but Kenneth found that he hadn't had the heart. It deserved to know – like the rest of them – what was coming. They'd all earned that much – the right to scorn him, curse him, before they joined him.

"_Are you sure?"_ The monitor before him prompted. _"This action cannot be reversed."_

He looked down, double checked with the gift in his lap, the present one of the Comm boys had left in their desk (that unwitting boon) and tapped the button.

Click. (_Execute_.)

The screen blinked, flashed, and went dark. (_Goodnight moon.)_ A timer popped up, red against the black.

15 minutes and counting.

His lips curved– _the company will be done_ – and he sat back, hands dropping, cradling the gun, pressing it to his temple (_cool and comforting_).

The company will be done…his way. _Director_ at last.

What was left of his mouth continued to grin even when his body slumped, fell, and spilled blood and brains across the keyboard.

~.~

Stirring with her alarm, Sergeant Tatianna Blackfeather poured herself from her bunk with a tired groan, slapping at the offending clock with one hand and digging at her eyes with the other. Toes curling against the cold floor she stumbled her way to the door, hissing at the wayward boot that dared to trip her – cursing, when the sharp kick she aimed its way was rewarded with a sharp jolt of pain.

_Coffee_, she decided as she hobbled into the hall, pounding on doors (_rise and shine_) as she staggered by. Strong, fresh…black. _Definitely._

Seven a.m. was an ungodly way to start one's day.

Leaving the barracks, she rounded the corner blindly, running on instinct, headed for the common area, mouth watering at the promise of caffeine just a quick brew away.

_I swear if Anders forgot to-_

Brain catching up to her eyes, she paused, stilling mid-step, head-tipping. Turning slowly, she looked back the way she'd come, eyes narrowing…blinking.

Unbelieving.

No. That wasn't – that couldn't….

Rubbing her eyes again, just to be sure, she went back, stood in front of the little red and white box – the briefcase shaped device – she passed by every day. The one that had sat silent, unassuming, all those hundreds – thousands – of times. The one that was suddenly awake, purring - its little timer ticking.

Counting down.

~.~

I didn't mean for it happen. I didn't want it. I told myself over and over how pathetic it was – how dangerous it could be, but still…there they were. Hot and wet, streaking down my face.

_So weak…and extraneous_, the proud, powerful new me sneered.

_I'm scared_, the old, uncertain me whimpered.

The twin parts of my soul, the two halves that made up my whole.

The woman that loved him…and feared him. The mate that rejoiced in the bond, the unbreakable tie between us; and the human that dreaded the change, worried over what the transformation might bring.

The revolution from what I _was_ – to what I _could_ be.

What if I didn't make it? What if something went wrong?

What if I wasn't…_worthy?_

No second chance. No right to stand as an equal…

What if there wasn't an Eden waiting for me?

~.~

The door to the bathroom was closed, locked, but that didn't stop him.

It cracked, gave way under his shoulder, and popped open, light from the bedroom spilling inside. Pale, curled up on the floor, she blinked up at him, eyes dark and distant and wet – glittering like the trails of damp sketched down her cheeks.

Tears. He could smell the salt of them, practically taste them, from where he stood above her in the broken doorway.

She'd been crying.

In spite of everything, the urgency of the moment, t_hat_ gave Wesker pause…if only for a heartbeat.

He flung out a hand, palm up, insistent and urging.

"Come. We must go."

~.~

My secret. My shame.

My weakness.

Abruptly laid bare before him.

He wasn't supposed to see this part – to ever know this side, this part, of me.

What would he think of me now?

His eyes, still shaded, gave nothing away. I waited for the recrimination, the sudden realization on his part, the long-awaited disgust – the disinterest – the turning away….

But he held out a hand, offering, and said instead, "Come. We must go."

I stared.

Go?

_We?_

_ Us._

"Now!" He took a step, reaching down. "Come!"

And I took his hand, gripped hard, pushing as he pulled.

_Always._

~.~

Chairman Wesker was fleeing with his female.

The Red Knight monitored them, the pair, as they emerged from their quarters and raced for the stairs. It watched also Sergeant Blackfeather and the members of her team as they struggled with the Purge Device, trying to pry it from its housing – trying to stop it.

On Level 2, the Bio Team realized they were locked in. It saw first disbelief, then confusion, fear, and finally, outright panic pass across their faces – drive their actions.

One of the BOW keepers on Level 13 laughed and opened the cages. His fellows did not join in his amusement as they fell to the hungry mouths.

Hiram O'Roarke, in the Satellite Lab, cried into the monitor, begging for help.

The Red Knight listened, but did not.

It could not.

It could only observe with its glass eyes as they struggled and bled, eavesdrop with its mechanical ears as they screamed and cried.

Director Maul had seen to that.

~.~

There was no time for explanation, but she didn't ask.

_Trusting._

She ran with him, her hand hot in his. Tight. Her knuckles as white as his own.

(Don't let go.)

The exits, all routes to the surface, had been closed. Locked.

Salvation would not come from above – no escape that way – so Wesker led her down. Down through the spiraling stairwell, through the labyrinth of hallways, their boots pounding on the stairs, her heart drumming in his ears.

The old tram sat on its tracks as it had for years, dark, unneeded and unused. No time to see if he could get it running, to see if Maul – the treacherous bastard – had thought that far.

"Jump."

They hit the track together, she stumbled, he pulled her up, dragged her on into the black of the tunnel.

(Don't stop.)

~.~

They were still struggling – Alpha 7 – still fighting with the bomb when time ran out.

There was a moment, a heartbeat, where Sergeant Blackfeather looked across, hands still on the locking bolts, and met the gaze of Jason Anders.

Words unspoken, actions undone - sorrow, chance unfulfilled, regret.

A lifetime in the seconds before everything came apart.

~.~

The ground shook. Death called their names in the roar of the flames.

Heat closed in around them, too fast, too strong.

She looked up at him, squeezed his hand.

_It's okay._

Her eyes closed as he reached for her, turned her into his arms, into the fierceness of his embrace, the scent of her – _them_ – washing over him as the end came.

_I understand._


	4. Chapter 4

A/n's: So, I'm quite nervous about this one, probably because I like it so much. Hopefully, ya'll will it enjoy it too. Big thanks to slt for once again being awesome and not only betaing, but chatting with me and helping me through the stickier moments. This one's for you, Twin! Also, not to be forgotten: thank you to all the readers and reviewers. You guys make it all worth it.

Warnings: Minor gore and EXPLICIT (I'm told) ~flashback~ (ooh, fancy) sexy sex. XP

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><p><span>Chapter Four<span>

Four of Swords

"_A young man (or woman depending on the deck) rests upon a pallet, three swords hanging above, one below. He, or she, may appear dead; but is actually only resting. This is the 'meditation' card. It may seem out of place in a suit filled with strife and obstacles, but the Four of Swords, in fact, deals with the positive aspects of the sword symbol: peace and mental clarity. This card shows a period of rest and recovery after a time of challenge, with the promise that, once recovered, you will return to the challenge. For the moment, there is a truce. You can stop worrying, put down your arms and lower your shield – catch your breath."_

_-Thirteen, Aeclectic Tarot_

_-Ata-Tarot_

_We aren't going to make it._

Straight-forward and calm – those were the words that rolled through my mind as, hand-in-hand, we raced death. The tunnel ahead glowed, awash with red and orange, our shadows stretching long along the tracks and urging us on…leaving us behind.

_Not like this. Not together._

I was already falling, choking and slowing as I struggled to breathe in the thickening smoke and skyrocketing heat.

_I'm slowing him down._

I wasn't an equal. Maybe I could have been…I didn't know – wouldn't know.

All I would be now was the death of him.

Wesker turned, the hungry conflagration rushing behind us shining in the dark glass of his shades as he yanked on my hand, pulled me into his body.

_It's okay._

I wanted to say it, but my lips were cracking, bleeding, as my skin tightened and blistered.

His hands came up, locked on my jaw, fingers digging into my cheeks; I wondered, fleetingly, if it would hurt – surely not as much as the alternative, not as much as cooking alive – and closed my eyes.

Ready. Willing.

_I understand…_

…But then my feet were flying out from my under me and we tumbled to the cement and steel floor beneath us, a tangle of limbs. His mouth came down on my ear, his breath harsh and hot.

"Wait for me."

A command (a request?) and then his cheek pressing against mine, his hold tightening.

Heat. Pain. The roar of flames, the sizzle of flesh.

And him – always him – and his heart pounding with mine as we burned.

~.~

How long?

Time blurred, stretching…indefinite.

Minutes, hours, days.

I couldn't be sure. Couldn't tell.

His watch had cracked, the metal backing melting to his flesh of his wrist, the little back-glow light fried and unresponsive.

How long we had lain in the fire, how long I had been out, how long he had been gone…I didn't know.

I felt…tight – _raw_ - nerves zapping with every movement I made, but I couldn't see myself in the dark to check. I could only imagine what I looked like…could only run my fingers over my skin (puffy and sore) and his (cracked, rough and blistered) and guess at the damage done.

I could only wonder how much longer it would take for him to heal. For him to come back to me.

_You saved me, chose __**us**__._

I held him in my arms, pressed my cheek to the ruined flesh of his, ignoring the terrible scent and heat, and whispered to him. Encouraged.

_And I'm waiting, just like you asked._

Worried.

No breath, no heartbeat other than my own, out of sync and struggling alone.

_Don't change your mind now – I can't go alone._

~.~

His body was not his own. T bound him - no sight, no sound – in an empty gray nothingness that was neither death, nor life. Rather…somewhere in-between. An amniotic place. Primal.

The Before…and After.

He drifted, floating. Waiting.

Memory cradled him. Soothed. Kept him company.

It was the closest he had ever come to dreaming…

~.~

…_She was warm beneath him; bowing, arching with the touch of his fingers, his lips, his body…._

_He knew her inside and out – learned her anew every time. What made her gasp, what made her sigh, moan…cry his name as if it was a holy word. Invoking him. Worshipping him._

_Devotion, loyalty, surrender…the way she turned herself over – into – his keeping…he wanted. _

_He burned._

_Why…? _

_His fingers circled her wrists, took both in one hand, stretched them above her head until she was long and lean under him – shivering…trembling. Her eyes, so dark and deep; gleamed up at him; her lips parted on that breathy, feminine sigh that clawed at his gut and sent fire burning through his veins._

_The scent of her, the sound, the sight and feel…._

_Why her?_

_She was not as beautiful as others he could have had, nor as smart, not as strong or as swift…but it was her, always her, that he reached for – that he returned to._

_His grip hardened, his lip curled, teeth baring._

_Her chin tipped, mouth offered, as her leg slid against his, thigh-to-thigh, toes brushing his calf. Urging. Begging._

_His free hand traced the length of her, wrapped around the back of her knee, lifting, spreading her thighs. Her hands flexed, but didn't fight, as her hips rose to meet him – eager, welcoming, as he buried himself in her, hard and deep._

_No relief. _

_Hot and tight she enclosed him, held him, demanded more from him with a roll of her hips._

_She needed…made him frantic to give._

_To please-_

_-no! She could not – would not…enough of this!_

_She was nothing; one among many – hundreds that would come to him, just as warm and willing, if he desired. No different, no better._

_This would end. Here and now._

_His head lifted, the red glow of his eyes staining the pupils of hers – mirrors – and with a fleshy, wet tearing, they moved within him – the mandibles, the ropey tentacles (all teeth) the virus had given him. His jaw unhinging, they dropped free, splaying wide, spittle dripping._

_He would finish this._

_And then he would find another._

_Any other._

_He would break her hold over him._

_She stilled, her hands clenched into white fists…and then relaxing as she stared up at him, her eyes moving over his face, following the length of the convulsing appendages, before coming back. Meeting him again._

_She took a breath, slow and steady through her mouth – he waited for the scream, the struggle – and exhaled, nodding gently._

"_I understand."_

_A whisper._

_A gunshot in the dark._

_ Her head turned, lips brushing his arm as she offered her pulse – beating strong beneath her jaw - and closed her eyes. "It's okay…take what you need."_

_ No fight. No begging. No tears. Just a quiet acceptance – of him, of what he was…of what he could do, would do, to her._

_ He would kill her…and she would let him. He needed, and she would provide._

_ Everything._

_ Always._

_ Her breath blushed across his skin – scalded – and he jerked away, hands snatching back, pulling out of her (there was a low, bereft sound – her,… or him – he couldn't tell) as he scrambled to put distance between them. (To free himself.)_

_At the foot of the bed, on his hands and knees, he struggled; jaw popping and cracking as he swallowed down the dark, fang-laden petals of his second mouth._

_ For a long moment, there was nothing, just the sound of their hearts beating, lungs expanding and contracting as she breathed – slow and even - and he panted – wild and desperate - then the bed shifted, dipped, and her hands appeared next to his, light on the sheets where he gripped fiercely, a drowning man on a lifeline._

_ She touched him, gently, her fingers skimming across the backs of his hands, wrapping around his wrists and pulling, working his fingers free so she could lift them, turn them over, and press her mouth to them._

_ He looked up at her, skin shuddering: unable to bear her touch…desperate for more._

_ Her lips worked their way up, up one arm, across a shoulder, up to his jaw – he turned away, she followed._

_ Unabashed. Unafraid._

_ "It's okay," she murmured again, mouth at the corner of his. "Whatever you need…it's okay."_

_ His fingers twitched uncertainly, then lifted…splayed across her ribs._

_ She nodded, nibbled, slipped closer, sliding against him, over him as he shifted, laying back. Her hands moved, gliding between them, tracing the ridged muscles that danced, tensing and flexing, beneath her._

_ He closed his eyes, gave himself over to the feel of it. Of her._

_ She kissed him, drew him into a battle of lips, tongues, and shifted, thighs spreading over his hips, squeezing – the wet heat of her against his length, hard and hot._

_ Why her?_

_ His teeth closed on her low lip, the metallic taste of blood flared on his tongue._

_ She mumbled – his name._

_ (There is power – in the name of a thing. Magic, that can change monsters into men and bring gods to their knees.)_

_ Because he wanted her._

_ Needed her._

_ He sighed her name back, wound them together, and took her hips._

_ She lifted, her fingers circling the length of him, positioning._

_ His grip tightened, eyes opening, finding hers. "Now."_

_ Please._

_ She guided him into her, took him deep, until they were flush – hip to hip._

_ No end, no beginning._

_ One._

~.~

A storm was on the way; and they were hunkering down, closing up, in preparation.

The only ones visible were a few hardy souls, making last minute checks: windows boarded tight, fuel supplies sufficient, extra rations of food and water….

Busy little bees, they paid her no mind as she slipped away – perhaps assuming she was doing the same. That there was some minute detail or some consuming task, that needed doing before the storm shut them down for the duration.

Past the hastily refurbished houses they dared to call homes, beyond the greenhouse and barn – where a small crew worked to ensure the safety of the plants and animals – and down to the old smoke-house – a dark blot on the snowy landscape – that sat at the edge of everything.

Small and damaged, the bone-chilling wind rattling through the walls and rafters, it was of no use to anyone…except her.

Pulling the door closed behind her, and blocking it with the flimsy wooden latch, she tapped the snow from her boots and pulled off her gloves as she worked her way to the back wall.

Breath misting, the silvery plume the only other movement in the cold and still air, she gripped the old canvas tarp and flipped it back, exposing the equipment beneath.

Too new, too high-tech to have ever been native to this little backwater village, this was hers. Her connection to the Others.

To Umbrella.

Her employers.

She was behind on her reports. They'd have been expecting her days ago.

She worked on an excuse as she flipped switches and the tiny lights and dials came to life – a soft, hissing static greeting her hello.

Running one hand over her short bob of hair, she picked up the mic with the other and cleared her throat.

"This is Agent Ada, designation AW454-895, seeking terminal UCNY14873."

A beat. Unbroken radio-fuzz.

"Come in New York – say again – this is Agent Ada, reporting in."

She paused, waiting, took the opportunity to rehearse her lines again.

_So sorry. Yes, I know. It's just been so __**difficult**__ to get away…._

Seconds ticked by, turned into long minutes.

Still nothing.

She frowned, double checked her settings, and blew out a frustrated breath.

"Come on, O'Roarke, quit playing games. I'm sorry I made you wait, okay?"

Crackle. Hiss.

Empty air.

~.~

"Is it done?"

Gionne was the first to speak, looking poised, refreshed and elegant, where she sat despite the fact she couldn't have had anymore sleep than the rest of them.

She'd even changed her clothes.

An eager little debutante, looking to make an impression at the grand ball.

"The New York Facility went dark 2 hours, 17 minutes ago. There has been no response to attempted communiqué." Saunders supplied, straight and stiff (starched), to Sergei's right.

The woman nodded, smiled (a wicked display of fine, even teeth), and looked across at him. "Congratulations are in order, then, yes? Well done - Chairman. You've done it."

He tilted his head, acknowledging her flattery, pretending not to see through to her motives.

He had watched her pant after Albert Wesker for the better part of two years – all wriggling, eye-batting innuendo – and now, with the shift of power, here she was, smiling and fluttering at him.

"What of the data?" He contended, inwardly amused by the way Gionne's smile deflated, just a twitch, before she caught herself and slipped it back into place. "And of Director Maul?"

Sergei's eyes skimmed down the table to Emmanuel Johnston – Director London. "He clearly has not arrived yet-" he gestured to the empty seat at the table, "-has he offered an E.T.A.?"

Johnston took a breath, shook his head. "No…sir. The contents of New York's research has arrived, as promised, but we have not heard from Director Maul – and satellite surveillance has not picked up any of our jets. Headed this way, or any other."

"Perhaps he didn't make out." Piped up Samuel Barns, looking harried and hang-dogged. His eyes, owlish behind his glasses, flicked up, then darted away. "Like the rest of them…"

"That would be unfortunate," Sergei replied, a patient pied piper. "After all, the good Director is one of us – the heroes of Umbrella." He looked back at Johnston. "Continue surveillance. Inform the board when he arrives and I'll see that he too receives his just rewards."

_Just like the rest of you…._

~.~

Touch first – the feel of something hot beneath him, pressed to his skin. Pain, rippling over him, through him, in waves.

Sound – a pounding, a pair of drums, fast and slow, evening…matching. A humming, unintelligible…before it softened into a voice. Soft and familiar.

Scent – ash and smoke, charred meat, scorched fabric…_her._

Sight – darkness, deep even for his eyes. Rough shapes.

Then – _finally_ – movement. The ability to stir his limbs, to lift slowly away, to turn his head and look down and find her staring up - her face vague in the heavy gloom, but unmistakable.

She'd stayed.

Waited.

Once again, she chose to follow him. In-spite of the danger, despite what it would mean for her.

She sighed and her lips smiled, the arms around him strong even as her voice shook, a mix of strained anxiety and relieved laughter.

"About time. A girl could go gray waiting for you."

He dipped, and found her mouth, ignoring the protest of his lips – the way they ached and cracked, not yet healed.

He could not say it – the words were too powerful for him, too much for him to give even to her – but she didn't ask.

She knew.

She trusted.

And that was enough, for now, as they lay in the dark, bruised and scarred. They were alive.

And they were together.


	5. Chapter 5

A/n's: So… this took a long time. I'm sorry. I don't really know what happened – there were the holidays, and I got sick, sure, but then… everything was _blah_. For a long time. And it still kinda is. This isn't the greatest of chapters, I can own up to that, but I don't think it's terrible either. Hopefully, that'll be enough; along with, of course, my promise that I'm gonna try and fix it. I'm not sure if I can… but I will try.

Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed. You guys are the reason I do this.

Sad Little Tiger: You especially, deserve my thanks; and the thanks of everyone who has enjoyed _Devil's Due_ thus far. It wouldn't be half as good without you. I regret nothing. *heart*

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><p><span>Chapter Five<span>

Ace of Swords

"_This is the beginning, the spark of potential that will influence all that lies ahead and it usually indicates that your mind is feeling sharper, clearer – you want to talk, want to discuss, or write. You can clear away the fog that has kept you from seeing the inner truth, and you can cut away all the bonds of the past that have held you back. The time to act is now, and if you set your mind to accomplishing your goals, you can achieve anything. Just remember, the sword cuts both ways, and be careful that you don't cut yourself."_

_-Thirteen, Aeclectic Tarot_

_-Ata-Tarot_

Ada brought the storm in with her. The fine dusting of gritty white powder on her hair and clothes fluttered and flew, drifting, as she unwound her scarf, and slipped free of her coat. Icy puddles dripped from her boots, marking her path through the house. (An unpleasant morning surprise for bare and stocking feet.) The chill in her skin and bones radiated, burned, as she slithered into bed and between the sheets, curving and cuddling against the sleeping length of male flesh.

He stirred almost immediately, all warm muscle and smooth skin beneath her hands, drawing away, tensing and sucking a breath.

"Jesus." His voice was muffled, husky and drowsy, but his hands were as quick as ever, snatching at hers, stilling their trek down his ribs. "You're cold."

She nuzzled her frosty lips along the back of his neck, all smiles as he jerked and shuddered. "I am?" she laughed, rubbing her nose in the fine line of baby hair growing at his hairline and winding her legs around his, tucking her toes in against his calves. "Let's share then…."

He made bemused sort of noise, something caught between a weary sigh and a chuckle, and turned, sliding in the sheets to meet her.

"Wha'did you do?" His finger tips slipped along her shoulder blades, his palms hot. "Roll in it?"

Her face slipped into the curve of his shoulder, the drum of his pulse beneath her lips.

"_I_ was out being a productive member of society. You know-" She rubbed her fingers over his hipbone, pressed the hard knot between her knuckles, "-Rescuing kittens, helping old ladies cross the street…."

A muscle in his thigh jerked against hers and, catching on quick, his hands stopped their gentle, soothing caresses and began to mold. Knead.

"Oh my," he murmured, stubble rasping across her cheek, his mouth curving in her hair. "A regular good girl."

"Of course." Her hips began to sway, a gentle to-and-fro (encouraging) as her eyes fell closed. "And I do believe I've earned a reward for all that _effort_…" She bit him, a quick taste of salty flesh. "Don't you?"

Sex as a distraction. It was an old trick, one she'd never had any qualms about using (in many ways, in general, and on this job in particular, she'd always rather thought of it as perk). She told herself, as his tongue bathed over her earlobe, that that was all it was. But when his hands slipped between her thighs and the first blush of pleasure had her arching - spreading…_wanting_ – that voice, the same one that had told her give up on the radio, that had told her to leave it - to leave the mysterious absence of her employers at just that - was back, whispering insidiously.

Leon Kennedy wasn't the only one she was trying to deceive.

~.~

The wind continued to howl, a pack of braying hounds, closing in….

But Leon's breath whispered, sweet and soft. A warm stirring at the back of her neck.

Ada sank into the feel of it. Eyes closed, she willed herself to sleep. To forget. To silence the questions.

Where was Umbrella? Why hadn't they answered…how long did she have?

How long before the Chairman came back for her?

~.~

They walked, faceless in the dark, disembodied voices brazen.

Whistling past the graveyard.

Wesker told her, over the soft pat of their footsteps, the gentle hum of their double heartbeat, what the Red Knight had said. What he knew…and what he could guess.

Her laugh was a bitter sound. Short and cold.

"Who'da thought he had it in him? 'Milquetoast Maul.' If he hadn't just tried to kill us I'd almost be impressed."

She wouldn't see it in the gloom, but his lips lifted, quirking just so. Pleased by her fight; the blush of angry sarcasm that chased away the phantom taste of her salty tears from the back of his mind.

They'd have to deal with it eventually, the breakdown he'd walked in on, but for now, it was simpler to address the Amazon.

"Try to keep your admiration to a minimum; I sincerely doubt he cooked it up all by himself."

"The Board?"

"Who else?"

"Why?"

The words tumbled between them, overlapping, running together, her mind turning as quickly as his.

How far they'd come.

How far she still had left to go.

Perhaps someday…there would be need to speak at all. Perhaps they would simply _know._

One mind – a perfect union, all seeing.

_Gods._

He stopped, turning to find her in the black. Her boots clanged against the steel ties of the track, halted, and he could see her – like black ink on black satin.

The scent of them – of his virus, now theirs – burned in his lungs.

Their child called to him. Like to like.

The first in their image.

"Because they're frightened little children," he whispered, voice suddenly dropping low, the conversation unseemly in the shadowed grave of Umbrella. "The world is slipping away from them, a new order on the horizon, and they know they have no place in it."

"Did they know?" she murmured back, a hushed breath, following his lead unconsciously, feeling it. "About me?"

"No." He was certain of it. It was too early, too soon….Not even she had been able to tell. "But perhaps they saw it as only a matter of time."

"It wasn't supposed to happen. I thought – you said-"

"But it _has_ happened. And now, despite the Board of Directors' best efforts, destiny looms before us."

She inhaled. Exhaled.

He waited.

"What happens now?"

~.~

Metal screamed, protesting as it resisted.

Flakes of what tasted like rust, and dirt, peppered my upturned face.

With a resounding _clang_ the old cover atop the access ladder conceded, giving under Wesker's insistence and light poured in with a rush of bitter air. Closing one eye against the sudden sensory onslaught, I forced the other to stay open – staring up into the glaring halo.

I watched, and waited, fingers tightening anxiously on the narrow rungs in front of me as he turned, looking….A black silhouette, haloed in the heavenly ring.

"Well?"

A beat.

Then he started to climb.

I followed, pausing only when his hand appeared before my nose.

Offering.

~.~

Winter.

A dusting of grimy-gray coated the city, broken only where the wind had pulled trash and debris through the snow.

Where the carriers had shambled through, ever hungry, never sleeping.

It had been Fall last time I been to the surface. A dry, overcast affair that I had felt all the way down to my bones.

(Funny how you lost track of time when you lived underground.)

There was a breeze, but it wasn't as bad I would have expected. Even in my short sleeves.

_Another symptom? _

Wesker was always hot. His skin feverishly warm to the touch.

Testing, I pinched my forearm, watching the still-pink skin whiten between my fingers.

I didn't feel any different…but I couldn't feel the cold either.

Not like I should have.

It should have been life-threatening, not annoying.

Shoving my hands in my pockets I looked up again, found Wesker staring from several feet away, almost at the mouth of the alley we'd come up into.

Waiting for me to finish marveling, his reptile eyes unblinking.

"Look for one with a full tank," he finally advised, breaking the silence, before turning back to the street and disappearing with two long, confident steps.

We hadn't talked about it yet – what would… _was_, happening to me. About the fear that had led to those damning tears. We'd come close, there in the rubble of what had been one of Umbrella's crown jewels, the two of us nothing more than a pair of faceless voices, but it hadn't felt right. It hadn't been the time.

I hadn't been ready.

"The trip will be arduous enough without stopping to find a new vehicle half-way through." His voice called back, carried with the fine, grating snow on the wind.

Squaring my shoulders I headed after him, wondering idly if the pun had been intended.

~.~

_Honk if you love Jesus._ A shocking pink against the drab of the fallen city.

_Elect Jesus – Your Life Leader. _A brazen red, white, and blue – clashing with the pink.

A school of Jesus fish, looping and overlapping; running together in an endless knot across the bumper.

It made his eyes hurt.

But she stayed. Watched. Studying it as she moved warily closer, tentative fingers brushing.

"A mini-van is ill-suited to our needs."

She paused, caught, then pulled away, dragging little furrows in the coating of dirty snow. "I know." She wiped her hands on her jeans. "Just checking."

~.~

A Chevy Impala, tan, one headlight cracked and knocked askew.

Punch-drunk.

A pair of sunglasses hung from the rearview mirror, earpiece looped over a nylon cord dangling a purple rabbit's foot.

I almost laughed.

He popped the driver's door while I circled, looking for more damage.

The engine roared, tailpipe sputtering and billowing white smoke in the frigid cold. The twang of a guitar cutting through the air, echoing, before it suddenly cut out.

In the rearview mirror, Wesker's eyes gleamed. Plucking the glasses from the string, he beckoned, door slamming.

Luck indeed.

~.~

They came out of nowhere. The streets empty of life one moment, then teeming the next. They lumbered out of alleys, crawled from beneath abandoned cars, staggered from the broken and open doorways of stores; a sea of rotted flesh, jerking closer, mouths open and working mindlessly, arms – for those that had them – outstretched, fingers curling rhythmically.

Seeking.

They brushed down the length of the car, bumping against the fenders, stumbling over one another.

The pale, torn forehead of one drew over my window, thick pinkish drool smearing. Another bounced off the hood, crunching loudly as it was dragged beneath the wheels. Their desperate moans echoed, confused and hungry. .

"What's wrong with them?" I heard myself ask over the drone of their voices, unable to look away even as I leaned carefully back, the feel of Wesker's shoulder against mine comforting. "Why aren't they attacking?"

He eased the car through the swarm, a shark gliding through a school of minnow, concerned more for the damage they might do to vehicle then to us. "They have no reason to. The car is not alive; they are merely drawn to the sound and movement."

A solid _thunk_ against the rear passenger door – like a skull perhaps. A skull cracking on the steel.

My wince was automatic. Instinctive.

"What about us?"

"I doubt they're even aware of us. We are already infected. We are not prey."

_Infected_.

For a moment I'd almost forgotten, distracted by our undead escort.

_Of course._

It came rushing back, the weight on my shoulders – my chest. The unknown, hanging over me like a storm cloud, waiting to strike.

Even when we left them behind, too slow to keep up, I could hear them, see them.

Like ghosts, haunting me.

Omens.

~.~

"I'm not afraid of dying. Not really."

The confession was sudden, but soft. The truth pulled from some distant place as she stared out into the snow whipping past, her exhale blushing across the frozen glass.

The storm had worsened as they'd left New York, heading north. The skies darkened and the snow closed in – thick and fast. Reluctantly, he'd pulled over, silence falling loudly as he'd turn the car off.

She'd said little in the miles that had past, but now, at last, here it was.

Finally, they would put this behind them.

Finally, she would accept the truth.

"I'm not even afraid of…_changing_."

He shifted, keys jingling against his knee, and waited – watching her breath go warm and wet, running down the window in tiny, racing rivers.

"I'm afraid it won't be enough. That… _I_ won't be enough. To be so close, to be chosen, but not worthy…."

"Your fears are unfounded."

She turned, her eyes dark and deep. "You're sure?"

"Yes."

"_How_? How can you be so sure?"

He stared back. Found his unwavering reflection in the green and brown depths. "Because I can smell it in you; feel it in your veins." He reached across, wrapped his fingers in the mass of brunette silk, tangling hard, his knuckles grazing her scalp. "My virus – my choice."

He pulled, and they came together – mouth to mouth. Her heart careened in his ears, drowning out the sound of the lashing wind, the caterwauling country music,…the drum of his own strange heartbeat.

Her lips were warm, unnaturally hot, under his. More changes. For him. For their child.

He dragged her across the seat, into his lap; her thighs spreading over his, her hands on him as his pushed at her clothes – seeking…searching….

More heated skin.

"It's inside you." Growled words, panted in her mouth.

Zippers rasped, buttons popped. His fingers splayed across her stomach.

_Like to like._

Their eyes locked; her nostrils flared, his teeth bared.

Feral. Less… no… _more _than human. The both of them.

"_I'm_ inside you."

And she'd never get him out.


	6. Chapter 6

A/n's: Here it is, at long last. Fingers crossed that it's not _too _far below ya'lls' expectations.

Thank you to everyone who reviewed the last chapter and offered such wonderful support, and, of course, thank you to Twin for always being there when I needed you.

Warnings: Some gore.

Disclaimer: The Plum Island Animal Disease Center is a real place, and the U.S. Government is really looking to sell it, but I promise I have no affiliation with them and am not earning any profit in using it in this story. It just made for a handy, and fun, plot device.

* * *

><p><span>Chapter Six<span>

The Wheel of Fortune

"_The Wheel of Fortune is an apt symbol for the forces of Destiny and Fate, and its appearance means that change is not only **likely** to happen, it is **certain** to happen, and soon. The nature of the change is likely to be dramatic and certainly out of your control, but remember that every path leads somewhere, even if you don't know where it is."_

_-Thirteen, Aeclectic Tarot_

_-Ata-Tarot_

_Everything was quiet and dark. The Mill turned in for the night and everyone far away asleep. _

_Everyone except Sarah. _

_On quick little feet she tip-toed from her room, the sleepy snores and murmuring sighs of the others following her as she slipped down the hall. Dancing around the loose, squeaky floorboard across from Mr. Bill's room, she hurried to the door at the very end._

_It was closed now. Had been ever since he'd come, but she paused only a few uncertain moments before letting herself in. The door opened and closed with barely a sound and she smiled, already feeling better…_

_Then she heard it - that rustling noise of bad things moving out of sight – and then she saw… **him**. In the corner, upright – watching – with those snake eyes glowing red like… like… **blood.**_

_Heart pounding, she froze – except for her shaking knees and her eyes, which darted to the opposite corner. To the mound of blankets and pillows, to the form sleeping unaware._

_Safety._

_She'd never seen him in the dark before. Never been alone with him. She never had any reason to be afraid…. But now she wondered._

_Could she make it…? Would he… stop her? _

_Would he do those things Daryl hissed about when he thought no one was listening?_

_Sarah pulled her lip with her teeth and glanced at the bed again._

_What would she do?_

_She glanced back at Wesker – still watching (waiting?) – and took a step. Just a little one. A test._

_He didn't move._

_She took another. Then another… and suddenly gave in, sprinting the rest of the way and diving down into the nest. _

_There was a grunt of pain, and Sarah grabbed in the direction it had come from, pulling and shaking._

"_What…" came a voice, heavy with sleep. "Sarah? What – what is it?"_

"_I…" Sarah paused. Willed herself not to look up. "I couldn't sleep."_

_A stretch of silence, then a tired sigh. "Okay. Alright." She shifted, making room. "But if you steal all my covers again I'll make you sleep with Spade."_

"_What about…" Sarah swallowed, and dropped her voice to an insistent whisper, "…**him**? Is it – okay?"_

_She didn't move. Didn't even look up, she was already falling under again. Comfortable. Unafraid. "He's watching over us, Sarah. Go to sleep… he'll keep us safe."_

~.~

He had seen it hundreds, perhaps thousands, of times in a sea of faces: men and women and children, screaming and bleeding, burning from the inside as T made them her own. He knew the symptoms, understood the process – could quote it back to himself in several languages.

He'd even lived it.

But somehow, it was still new.

It was different this time.

Because of her; because it _was_ her.

It was her turning the white and grey afternoon to red as she lurched in her seat beside him and vomited blood. It was the sound of her panting and gasping, of her heart laboring in his ears, as he slammed on the brakes and jammed the car into park. The feel of her body writhing, twisting and contorting, as he dragged her from her seat and onto the snow dusted asphalt. It was the way she looked up at him, the veins in her eyes blown into ruby starbursts, and smiled with pink-tinted teeth.

The gurgle in her lungs…. The stuttering whisper of her voice….

The silence.

The deafening void as she slipped away and left him alone with nothing but the promise of the virus that she would be back.

~.~

He wiped her mouth, but the ruby tinge remained.

He rubbed down the inside of the car with a towel he found in the trunk, but the scent lingered.

(Bile and blood and death – a noxious cloud that flooded his senses.)

In the passenger seat, her body rested, slumped, forehead pressed to the glass that had been splattered with her fluids.

He turned the CD back on, but he could still hear the lack of her heartbeat, the absence of breath.

~.~

The end of the line was Long Island Sound; an expanse of water and waves and a briny wind that chased the lingering scent of blood and vomit from his lungs as he stared across and out into the distance.

On the horizon, shimmering like mirage, sat Plum Island, vague and dark.

"The facility there is owned by Umbrella," he told her, voice hollow on the brisk and salty breeze. "But it was closed before the end – too much expense to correct all the decades of government mistakes, not enough profit to make it worth while."

A rush of phantom heat tickled down the back of his collar.

_Oh good, more boats. _

"We will regroup there. We will be able to wait undisturbed."

Her ghostlike laugh whispered in his ear.

_My last cruise ended so well._

~.~

The old ferry left a lot to be desired, but it floated, and the engine, after so many years of neglect and disuse, miraculously still had enough life left to come alive with an angry roar of grinding gears and roiling sea.

_Can I call you 'captain?'_

It was the sly, amused tone that had him looking back over his shoulder to where she sat in the corner, leaning against the grimy wall.

(Lifeless. Her lips still stained with the red of her blood. Her eyes half-open and as blank as glass.)

_What? I'd bet you like it._

He snorted – a hard, forceful exhale – and turned back to the instrument panel.

_Spoil-sport._

He reached for the throttle and-

-_Oh, look! We have company._

He turned back, hand going for the desert eagle snug against his side as a crash wafted up from somewhere below the wheelhouse.

A thought - a breath - and he was across the room, peering through the porthole, looking left, right… then down, down to the deck where an infected thrashed – struggling to find its feet on the shifting vessel.

He'd checked the ferry. It must have come from the dockyard, drawn by the noise of the engine and the churn of the propeller.

Its cataract white eyes rolled stupidly, searching… a pound of flesh falling to the deck as it lurched upright. Its head turned, what remained of its nose leading its lizard brain.

They're gazes met.

Wesker's lip curled in a silent display of teeth.

And it lost interest, head drooping like a wilted flower.

An understanding.

Like to like.

~.~

Halfway across the Sound it lost its footing, slipped, and tumbled overboard.

Out the window all Wesker saw was a flash of white - the sea rising up - as it crashed over the side and disappeared into the blue-black waves.

_I'll take that ten bucks now._

"It's not technically dead. They don't breathe, it can't drown. It will drift – until it finds the shore or disintegrates."

There was a stretch of considering silence.

_And here I thought just **being** one of them was the worst that could happen._

~.~

The woodland, culled back during Umbrella's tenure at the island, had grown wild in the years since the end. It skirted the beach, stretching thick beyond the open expanse of Plum's dockyard and chasing the cracked road to the facility up and out of sight.

A few years more and it would be impossible to tell man had ever been there.

Limp in his arms, her head rolled into the curve of his neck as they strode up the old path.

"Deer," he provided, before her voice whispered. "Some wild dog. The former has always been here, the latter introduced."

_Escaped, you mean._

"Before Umbrella, when it was still the Plum Island Animal Disease Center."

_Because that's so much more comforting._

"They're harmless."

_To you._

"To us."

~.~

The facility was sprawling, as much a maze of twists and turns above ground as beneath, but he remembered. The power had long been disconnected, but it didn't matter.

He could see.

Through the long halls and quiet rooms so haunted he could hear the echo of ancient footsteps and hissed voices, he carried her, seeking somewhere safe. Somewhere suitable….

He settled for a breakroom, still stocked with a tattered couch and a wobbly table with one leg longer than the others.

There he stripped her, and cleaned her – bathing away as much of what had been as was possible – and laid her down to rest, arranging her limbs until it appeared she was sleeping.

(An altar for the phoenix.)

How long he'd have to wait, only the virus knew.

~.~

_We sat together at the end of the dock, my father and I, the rough cut wood biting into the backs of my bare legs as the sun beat down on us. In the distance a fish slapped at the surface… and beside me, my father dug noisily into the paper bag between us. He pulled out a white bundle – a hamburger wrapped in white and sporting a pair of golden arches above a leering red grin._

"_You have no reason to be afraid, you know," he said suddenly, smoothing the crinkled wrapper across his lap as he unfolded it._

_I stared down at the blue-green water, watching the light dance over the gentle waves smacking against the support posts of the dock. "I'm not."_

_He said nothing. Only chewed._

"_Not really."_

"_Then why are you here? You know you don't belong. Not yet."_

"_I… I wanted you to know that I'm sorry the way it happened. And that I wish it could have been different."_

_More quiet chewing. "You don't regret it, though."_

_It wasn't a question._

_My mouth opened – closed. _

"_No," I finally agreed._

_Even if I'd wanted to lie, I didn't think I could've. This, somehow I knew, wasn't the place for it._

_This… this was my last chance. _

_ "I'll never see you again," I heard myself whisper. Guilt. "Or the others, they'll never forgive-"_

_ "Never's a long time, Mooch," he interrupted, untroubled and suddenly smiling. Just like his hamburger wrapper. "A lot can happen between here and eternity."_

_ I started to ask what he meant – but he waved me off, popping the rest of his burger into his mouth with one hand and scraping once more inside the bag between us with the other. _

_ "Now… in the mean time…" He unrolled the second and pushed aside the sesame seed speckled bun, plucking out a thin, round pickle, and holding it out to me as the wiry whiskers around his mouth pulled impossibly upwards. "I remember how much your mother craved them."_

_~.~_

Heat. Pooling… sliding… slipping around inside.

Somewhere – a pounding. Drumming, drumming… hard and rhythmic.

And… pickles.

The bitter tang of pickles in the back of my mouth.

~.~

A hushed noise. From behind, somewhere out in the darkness.

Wesker stiffened and let his fingers shift to the Desert Eagle beside his hand as he turned… and saw her. Wraith-like, she wavered in the doorway, her skin bare and pale and glowing a deathly blue in the uncertain moonlight filtering in through the broken glass of a nearby window.

She did nothing – said nothing – and for a moment he wondered if perhaps his delusions had escalated. No longer just auditory hallucinations, but visual as well….

But then she grinned, a lazy display of teeth, and her eyes, her strange new serpentine eyes the color of rubies and gold gleamed as the rush of her heartbeat echoed in his ears. "Did you miss me?"

~.~

"_Keep it." A smile. A warm hand. "You're our girl scout extraordinaire, who could be better than you?"_

A series of clicks, rapid and desperate. Then… a soft, low sigh followed by the gentle snap of metal on metal.

Finality.

It hadn't worked in months, but Sarah never stopped trying, coming back to it again and again to rub the cool metal like a worry stone.

_One more time_, her fingers would say, scratching over the little nicks and scars, and like an itch, the idea would dig at her until she gave in. Until she believed it would all be different.

_One more chance._

But no… she never got more than a few futile sparks. It was gone.

Just like everything else.

Just like her.


End file.
